Mental Health and LIS, Are We The Interruptors?

Even as I enter my own library at work, engulfed by its calm, quiet and orderly spaces, places of refuge for our students and staff, I feel the inner anxiety and unease of the morning, of the news stories and frantic awakenings at night. My anxiety has increased since the pandemic, probably even before it, if I really think about it. My mental health never much concerned me until more recently. Like me, I believe that behind the service desks, in staff rooms, and across institutional hierarchies, library workers everywhere frequently carry invisible burdens into the workplace. But within the realm of library work, conversations about mental illness are too often pushed to the sidelines, whispered behind office doors, or softened for others’ comfort. Silence becomes a form of policy, professionalism a mask.  In our era, library workers learn, implicitly or explicitly, that struggling is to be done quietly.

One of the monographs I came across confronts this silence head-on. Amazingly, LIS Interrupted seems to be the only title that fully provides firsthand accounts from library workers. The book brings conversations about mental health into public view, where they can finally be named and understood. By centring lived experiences, LIS Interrupted refuses to admit mental illness as a personal failing or a mere “inconvenient interruption” to work. Instead, it reveals how mental health is deeply entangled with the conditions of library labour itself, work that is emotionally demanding, undervalued, increasingly precarious, and shaped by systems of power.

In weaving together personal narratives and critical analyses to explore how mental illness intersects with labour, race, gender, disability, culture, stigma, and identity in the LIS field, this book explores structural inequities, namely, ableism, racism, colonialism, and managerialism. It’s a rather chilling notion that these very inequities determine who is supported, who is surveilled, and who is expected to endure harm in silence.

However, this book is not solely about suffering, but about connection and possibility. For library workers who have felt isolated or unseen, LIS Interrupted offers affirmation and solidarity. For educators and students, it serves as a critical text that challenges dominant narratives of resilience and vocational sacrifice. For institutions, it is a call to action to transform workplace cultures to better support their staff's care and dignity. In my work on trauma-informed care in libraries, I’m deeply interested in how mental health is not addressed. Karena Hagelin, an LIS trauma-expert, frames saneism as a “systemic and structural oppression of mad, crazy, and mentally ill” individuals and is a manifestation of ableism. For those who have experienced trauma, which is many of us, the norm has been to hide and disregard these feelings during work hours. In the case of the institution, to rid itself of these workers who disrupt the calm and order if it gets out of hand. I’m fortunate to have some tools and support to get through some challenging days, but thriving is still the goal.   I’m not the only one.  Let's have this book on the shelves of every library and on every desk.

"Implementing Trauma-Informed Practices in Academic Libraries: Empowering Staff to Foster Resilient and Inclusive Learning Environments" at UBC Library

Over the past year, I've been honoured to be part of Implementing Trauma-Informed Practices in Academic Libraries: Empowering Staff to Foster Resilient and Inclusive Learning Environments, a project supported by UBC Library’s Strategic Equity and Anti-Racism Framework (StEAR) Enhancement Fund. Our goal has been simple yet deeply ambitious: to reimagine the academic library as a place where staff are not only equipped to understand trauma, respond with empathy, and foster spaces that feel safe, inclusive, and genuinely supportive, but also have self-care practices to support themselves when facing or experiencing retraumatization.

The grant proposal behind this initiative seeks funding to deliver a comprehensive trauma-informed training program for library staff across UBC. This includes workshops and creating resources that introduce core principles of trauma-informed care, including safety, trust, choice, collaboration, and empowerment, to demonstrate how they translate into everyday library interactions.

Research shows that historically marginalized communities often carry disproportionate burdens of trauma, and encounters with discrimination—however subtle—can intensify stress and psychological harm. In academic libraries, where diverse users seek help, study, rest, and a sense of belonging, trauma-informed approaches are not just beneficial but essential.

A recent title that informed my work in this area is Trauma-Informed Leadership in Libraries (edited by Janet Crum and David Ketchum), which features a roster of LIS practitioners well-versed in this area. The monograph excites me because it considers an individual’s holistic life experiences, particularly the negative consequences of trauma, when determining how best to support and engage with them in the workplace from a manager's viewpoint and context.

My participation in this project has been both professionally transformative and personally grounding. Working alongside colleagues who share a commitment to equity and care has deepened my understanding of how library work intersects with human vulnerability. This initiative is more than a training program; it's a step toward reshaping campus culture, one interaction at a time, to ensure that all library users feel seen, supported, and respected.

Joyful Reading of "Chinatown Vancouver: An Illustrated History"

Reading Chinatown Vancouver: An Illustrated History by Donna Seto has been an absolute joy and revelation. From the moment I opened its pages, I felt immersed in a vivid and engaging tapestry of a community that has shaped the soul of Vancouver. The book’s vibrant illustrations bring to life a neighbourhood that is both historic and alive – and very near and dear to my heart. The historical Chinatown that I know — its narrow streets buzzing with memory, its shopfronts glowing with the warmth of people who built something enduring against the odds – brought back many fond memories for me. And to a past I have heard of but never visually experienced in a book.

I found myself lingering over the write-ups on the buildings, or searching on Google Street View, each one a small story of resilience and pride. The interviews with community members are deeply moving — their voices remind me that Chinatown isn’t just a place on a map; it’s a living archive of hope, survival, and belonging. Donna Seto’s research through archival photographs, too, offers a powerful window into the bustling heart of the community during its thriving days. I could almost imagine stepping through the doors of Cathay Importers, hearing the clatter of plates at Ho Inn Restaurant, or catching the aroma of a meal at Ho Ho.

For a librarian and historian like myself, Chinatown Vancouver: An Illustrated History isn’t just a history book. It’s a love letter to a neighbourhood that carries the weight of generations, a reminder that place connects us to our past and shapes our future. Reading it, I feel both pride and responsibility — pride in the community’s strength, and commitment to ensure its stories continue to be heard.